Five Times Arthur Picked Up And One Time He Didn't
by 10462
Summary: Arthur is a taxi driver, he nearly always picks up.


**Title**: 5 Times Arthur Picked Up, and 1 Time He Didn't.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Summary**: Written for this lonely little prompt from round 8 (HERE)  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing at all, except for the cute little projections of these two running around my head.  
Beta'd by the beautiful **SCARLET_STARLET** but the mistakes are all mine!

1.

Arthur drove like a maniac. His tyres screeched as he rounded the corner, heading for the nearest taxi bay outside the Red Letter Club. He turned up the volume on the radio as he shot the vehicle into a reverse parallel park, glaring out the rear window to ensure he didn't hit another lamppost. His boss wasn't very happy last time.

Arthur relaxed into the seat, flicking up the collar on his leather jacket and lowering his shades as he tapped along to the music with his thumbs on the steering wheel. Happy hour would be over in 10 minutes, so he had to enjoy the break before the peak period hit.

He was really getting into it, head bopping and even a few strums of his air guitar, when there was an abrupt rap on his window. Arthur quickly hit the radio button to silence it and rolled down the window with a slightly guilty expression.

A heavy British accent wafted through the taxi door, carrying the odour of hard liquor and cigarettes.

"How much for a trip back to East Avenue? That is, only if you're available, you look... pretty busy, love."

"Uh, that's only about a mile away ... so with flag fall it makes it $4." Arthur snapped into a mode of professional efficiency. Less than a shade remained of the at-ease rocker from moments before.

"Excellent," the man leaned in, breath warm on Arthur's cheek. "I'd walk, but I'm afraid I'm a bit pissed."

Arthur rolled his eyes as the passenger opened the back door and got in. In the rear view mirror he could see the man, dirty blond hair and piercing blue eyes, studying him like a half remembered dream. His eyes looked far too aware for someone who claimed to be too drunk to walk home.

2.

Arthur was getting near the end of his shift, the cool night air stinging his face as he drove. His passenger requested the window to be wound down because she claimed the stench of stale cigarettes was giving her a migraine.  
To be honest, the smell didn't bother Arthur. Though, he was more than happy to comply with the passenger's wishes. He had never been a smoker, but there was something about the scent on others that drew him in.

After dropping the old woman off in Fortesque Avenue, he thought it was about time to head home. He was surprised and perhaps a little disheartened to notice a man on the opposite side of the road flagging down his cab, arms flailing and limbs akimbo. As he wheeled the vehicle closer he recognised the not-quite-so-drunk Brit from yesterday.

"Home, sir?" Arthur enquired, polite charm oozing from his tone as though he was a high-class chauffer and not just a cheap ride in a yellow bomb.  
His passenger just winked and bundled himself into the cab. Arthur took off with a roar, and his passenger gripped the door handle with one hand and his cap with the other, dirty flannelette shirt riding up as he did so until Arthur couldn't help noticing a peek of creamy skin and faded ink.  
Arthur's eyes flew back to the road ahead. His fingers gripped the wheel perhaps a little tighter than necessary and his heart raced just a little faster for the rest of the two miles to his destination.

3.

The sun had been at exactly the precise angle to shine in his eyes all afternoon.

Arthur squinted over the steering wheel, the sunshade too flimsy to be of any real use at the necessary angle, as he tried to scope out potential customers. Cruising in a dodgier than usual part of town, he doubted there would be anyone in need of a lift strolling down the street, but the town centre was too crowded to risk another broken bumper or smashed tail-light.  
The last thing he expected was a burst of glass across the rear seat of his car as a burly youth threw a rock at his taxi. Screeching to a halt, Arthur jumped out of the car and started yelling at the boy for the damage he'd caused.

Arthur almost didn't notice the two others approaching with tyre irons. He spun around to face his attackers who were closing in on him.

Something distant twinged in his muscles, a feeling that he should know what to do in this situation. His instinct was to fight, not run, but a stronger and more insistent part of his brain told him it was impossible. Arthur was thin, but only lightly muscled and agility alone wouldn't cut it.

Arthur stepped backwards with his hands in his pockets, his fingers biting into the keys of his phone as he attempted to pocket dial 911. He hadn't even finished the call when a police siren roared to a halt only metres away and scattered the youths into a dark alleyway.

The blond and his darker partner stepped out of the car.

Arthur's jaw dropped as the pair approached him; it was starting to get freaky. The taller dark man hung back a few steps behind the blond, who gave his partner a polite nod. "I'll take it from here; you report back to base, okay?"

The Brit extended his hand, deciding it time for a proper introduction. "Sergeant Eames," he said with a friendly nod. "I see you're getting yourself into quite the spot of bother when I'm not around."

Arthur felt his face going red, like a child caught playing out of bounds in the schoolyard.

"How about a lift home, for old times sake?"

Arthur bit back his reply stating that the sergeant's partner had already left, after all, this man may have just saved his life and so instead he just settled for simply, "This one's on me."

4.

Arthur was waiting at the auto-repair shop the following Monday, worrying all weekend that his boss would find out about the broken window before he could get it fixed. As he sat on the hard plastic bench he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and managed to answer it before the loud and obnoxious ringtone deafened the receptionist.

"Yellow Cabs, Arthur speaking,"

"Ah, so it's Arthur then," the British drawl was unmistakable though the cell reception was poor, "Can you pick me up at 8? I don't think I'll be ready to drive to work in an hour."

"No problem, Sarge," Arthur replied and as soon as he heard the transmitted click of a receiver being put down, he was left wondering about why one would call in advance about being late and what Eames could possibly do in the shower for it to take him an hour to get ready.

5.

Saturday mornings were remarkably busy, Arthur mused as he rolled forward in line at the taxi rank outside La Rouge La Rouge. People were queued up for about a mile to catch a cab home; the thought made him chuckle. He knew a rather muscular policeman who wouldn't be willing to even walk as far as to the front of the line.

It was 3am when his cab rolled forward and the first person in line opened the door, politely hopping in and directing him north about 6 miles. Arthur was just about to pull out into the line of traffic, when he was disrupted by a hurried knock at his window.

"Do you mind if I just sit here in the back and wait my turn, ma'am?" Eames was the perfect polite English gentleman, despite the ungodly hour and faint smell of whiskey. The woman could hardly resist his charm.

"Uh, of course. I'm not too far away, if you don't mind," she stammered, from nerves or alcohol, Arthur wasn't quite sure.

"Now don't you go intimidating my customers, Eames," Arthur said warningly as he eyed his backseat passenger.

The woman looked surprised that the two were familiar, but somehow the thought must have comforted her because she settled back into her seat and closed her eyes for the rest of the journey.

When they arrived at her house, Arthur shook her shoulder gently to wake her. As soon as she realised what she had done, her face went beet red and she quickly handed Arthur the fare, almost tripping over in her high heels in her rush to get out onto the pavement and into the sobering night air.  
Eames wasted no time in slipping into the front seat and Arthur took off again into the night, knowing the route to Eames' house, almost as though he had travelled there a million times before.

+1

Arthur's phone woke him up on his day off. The obnoxious voice of some teen pop sensation ripped him abruptly from his dream as his cell buzzed its way to the edge of his bedside table.

"Eames, I'm not working today. Leave me alone."

"Can I pick you up at 7, darling?"

"I think you have the wrong number."

Arthur hung up the phone and rolled back asleep.

It was 2pm when Arthur finally got out of bed, wrapped himself up in his favourite bathrobe and fuzzy slippers before shuffling into the kitchen for some waffles. His phone buzzed briefly in his pocket again, signalling an incoming text message. It simply read:

"Don't forget. 7pm. Wear a suit – love E." Arthur grinned foolishly at the screen, deciding against a reply, just in case it was a joke. Arthur didn't want to ruin the image playing out in his head.

When 7pm finally came around, Arthur was pacing in the Entryway to his flat. He was dressed in his best suit and waistcoat, hair gelled back, aftershave not too heavy, but not too light. He had remembered only fifteen minutes beforehand to text Eames his address, so judging by the distance he should be  
about 3 minutes away.

4 minutes later, Arthur was sitting dejected on the sofa in the front room. His eyes were glued to the window, hoping that Eames hadn't just been messing with his head when a car pulled up in the driveway. Not wanting to look too eager, Arthur stayed glued to the couch. His neck was stiff as he determinedly didn't look out of the window, in case Eames caught him watching.

The doorbell rang once, and Arthur was behind it easing the latch open.  
Standing in the entranceway was the most garish purple suit he had ever seen. Blue paisley was embroidered around the hem as though the suit had literally just come through a warp in the time-space continuum from the 70's and landed in Eames' cupboard.

But Arthur soon forgot all about what Eames was wearing when he produced a dozen long stemmed roses. "Sorry I'm late, love. The florist was deep in conversation about the miracle of post harvest water conditioner."

Almost instantaneously Arthur decided that he liked being picked up almost as much as he liked Eames. a/n - Sorry that i deviated a little from the prompt! It all just sortof fell into place and Eames wouldnt keep still to stay in the same spot, hehe.


End file.
